


Hell is Empty (All the Devils are Here)

by xblessthefall



Series: The Guardian 'Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pack Feels, Season 2 AU, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Burn, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xblessthefall/pseuds/xblessthefall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the shit that Stiles has had to deal with, having his dad in the same room as four half-rabid werewolves definitely takes the cake. Of course, that’s before he’s forced into the chess match from hell with Allison’s creepy grandpa. Add to all of this the mess with the omega that’s circling around Beacon Hills, and Stiles is pretty sure that he’s going to need therapy by the end of the semester. </p><p>Sometimes, he really hates being right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately post-Raving in Season 2. If you need a quick review of 2x08's events, I made a convenient little guide that can be found [here](http://xblessthefall.tumblr.com/post/53566456984) .
> 
> A huge thanks to the two lovely ladies who helped beta this fic, tiedtothemast and bee36! Without them, there'd be comma splices and tense-changing happening all over the place. Bekah should get special recognition for the mere fact that she's agreed to continue proofing this story, despite the fact I first brought it to her for editing almost a full year ago. Thanks for all of your help and support, ladies!
> 
> Title taken from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_.

When Stiles finally makes it home from Deaton’s, the porch and kitchen lights have been left on, but his dad’s nowhere to be seen.

Clearly, he didn’t bother to wait up for Stiles.

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek as he makes his way into the living room, casting a hopeful glance at his dad’s armchair, praying that his old man will just be passed out in the chair like Stiles has found him so many times before. He’s not, though. The chair is empty and the television is off--his dad went to bed a long time ago.

Stiles drops his backpack with a muttered curse. He even kicks it for good measure.

Then he makes his way upstairs, does _not_ stomp, no matter how much he feels like he should, and shoves open his bedroom door. He blinks when he spots his dad at his computer chair, a coffee mug perched way too close to Stiles’ computer for comfort.

The Sheriff doesn’t turn at Stiles’ entrance. He doesn’t look up from the computer either.

“Werewolves? Wolfsbane? Canimals?” his dad shakes his head, his voice more empty than Stiles has ever heard it. Finally, _finally_ , he swivels the computer chair so that he can see Stiles. The expression on his face is an interesting mixture of bewilderment and disappointment, but Stiles can’t see past the latter to pay much heed to the other.

His dad punches out a world-weary sigh. “What the hell is this, Stiles?” he finally asks. From his tone, Stiles knows that his dad’s already bracing himself for whatever lie Stiles is about to feed him, and the knowledge leaves a sick taste in Stiles’ mouth.

He clears his throat.

“It’s called a kanima, actually,” he offers, voice too high and stilted. He licks his lips and casts a quick glance around his room, searching for the words to explain any of this to his father. From the corner of his eye he watches his dad’s expression fall.

Even now, when Stiles is trying so desperately to find the words to finally offer him the truth, his dad is steeling himself for the disappointment of being fed yet another lie.

So he does what he does best. He starts talking before his brain has a chance to catch up with his mouth. “The mechanic—that night at the auto shop, when that guy got crushed by my car—that was the kanima. It’s like some freaky cross between a snake and a lizard, and it’s got these _claws_ that secrete a paralytic that the kanima uses to immobilize its target, and that guy—uh, Tony? It’s what killed him. Some of the stuff was the door handle when I went to leave and that’s what –“

Before Stiles can let the fact that his dad’s pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head deter him, the doorbell sounds downstairs.

Stiles flails his arms in angry annoyance. “Are you _kidding me_?” he snarls, whirling on his heel and marching down the stairs to throw open the front door.

Any other time, he might have panicked a little to find Derek Hale and his pack waiting on his doorstep. As it is, Stiles has enough to deal with just then, so he doesn’t feel too motivated to see out whatever intimidation tactics Derek’s been teaching his betas in the _thirty minutes_ it’s been since Stiles left him at Deaton‘s.

“Listen, now’s really not a good time—“

“We need your help,” Derek interrupts shortly. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of that stupid leather jacket of his, and there’s dried blood smeared through the stubble at his chin. When he glances back at where Erica and Isaac are holding a barely-conscious Boyd up between them, his eyes glow alpha red. “Argent‘s men shot him up at the rave, but--” Derek’s voice drops into a growl as he reluctantly looks away from his pack to catch Stiles’ eye, and the torment he sees furrowing the alpha’s brow finally distracts Stiles enough that he manages to pull his head out of his own emotional crisis. “It’s a new kind of bullet.”

Stiles has to read between the lines a bit, but it all clicks anyways as he catches sight of Derek’s charred fingertips when the alpha drags a hand over his stubble.

His revelation is punctuated by Boyd coughing, the sound wet and wrecked, and it’s the final straw on the proverbial camel’s back.

Stiles shoves the door the rest of the way open. “Get him on the couch. I’ll be right back.”

Derek has barely moved into the living room when he whirls on Stiles, his teeth bared angrily and hands curling into claws. “Stiles—“ he growls, and Stiles really isn’t sure how the alpha can make his own name sound like a threat like that.

“Do you want my help or not?” he snaps, whirling to scowl at Derek and scrubbing a restless hand over his buzz cut. When Erica actually whines in response, Stiles doesn’t bother to wait for Derek’s answer. He simply bolts up the stairs, taking them two at a time and somehow miraculously not falling on his face for his efforts.

His dad’s waiting on the second story landing, his brow furrowed deep and his lips pulled into a disapproving frown. Before he can even open his mouth Stiles shakes his head.

“Not right now, dad—please. You can totally launch the Spanish Inquisition once I’m done saving this dude’s life.” He brushes past his dad and hurries into the ex-Sheriff’s bedroom. Judging from the heavy footsteps sounding behind him, Stiles figures it’s safe to assume that his dad’s followed him.

“What’d you do with that plant I told you to put in here?” he demands, glancing frantically around his dad’s room for that familiar bunch of purple flowers. Before his dad can answer, Stiles spots the plant perching precariously on the corner of his mother’s old vanity.

He doesn’t let the sentiment of the gesture clog his throat, but it’s a very near thing.

“Stiles, what in the hell’s going on?” his dad demands gruffly, his hands resting on his hips. One of his hands is curled over the edge of his belt as if searching for the familiar weight of the gun that should have been at his hip, and Stiles once again forces his emotions to the back of his mind so that he doesn’t choke up.

He makes quick work of plucking a handful of the flower’s petals and curls them in his fist before he swings to face his dad. He takes a steadying breath and prays that the words that make it out of his mouth are the ones that he intends to.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll explain everything—I mean all of it, the entire shebang, the director’s cut edition, complete with commentary and behind the scenes footage—to you later. But right now, there’s a guy dying in our living room, and it looks like I’m the only one who can help him. I know, poor guy, right?” he shakes his head with an absent, empty grin before clapping his dad on the shoulder and making a break for the stairs. He holds his fist over his head as he descends the steps and by some miracle doesn’t trip over his own feet before he makes it to the landing.

“Alright, I’ve got it! Somebody get me a knife from the kit—oh, you’ve already drug out all of the torture tools. Okay then,” Stiles quickly amends when he spots the pliers, knives, alcohol, rags, and tweezers that the others have gathered and piled on the coffee table. He’s barely begun making his way over to the couch when Erica and Isaac both flinch and wolf out and he freezes, blinking in confusion.

A second later, Derek’s slamming him into a wall and snarling.

Stiles holds up his hands in surrender, his eyes doing their best to fall out of his head and his heart dropping to somewhere around his ankles. He’s pretty sure he forgets to breathe, too.

“What are you doing with wolfsbane in your _house_?” Derek demands, outraged. He curls his fists in Stiles’ shirt and lifts him off of the floor with disgusting ease.

The sound of a gunshot echoes in the house and Stiles flinches into himself, trying to cover his head with his arms. He feels Derek sway into him for a single breath before the alpha is dropping Stiles into a heap on the floor and turning to face his dad, who’s standing at the top of the stairs and looking down the barrel of a shotgun which—oh shit, yeah, that’s definitely pointed right at Derek.

Derek snarls, baring his teeth, but he miraculously doesn’t attack. Yet.

Stiles scrambles to his feet. “Dad—fuck, hey! No! No guns!” He quickly moves to stand in front of Derek, shaking his head so hard that he’s giving himself whiplash and slashing his hands in front of him as if trying to call a foul. “Let’s not shoot the pissed off alpha, daddy-o! That’s definitely a no go, no good. Bad, actually. _Wow_ , is that an awful idea.”

He’s aware that he’s rambling by now, but seriously, what the fuck else is he supposed to do? His dad’s got a shotgun and Derek’s already halfway to feral with his beta bleeding out on Stiles’ couch.

“Stiles, get out of the way,” his dad grits out. Even with his shitty human eyesight, Stiles can see his dad’s finger flexing on the gun’s trigger.

“Another awful idea!” He chances a glance over his shoulder at Derek. “Can you turn off the Wolverine thing for a minute, please?” It’s really not a question, and judging from the unimpressed scowl that Derek offers Stiles as his fangs begin to recede and his freakish sideburns give way to the more familiar stubble, it’s clear that Derek only listens because he’s got more important things on his mind.

Like helping Boyd. Which, by the way.

“I don’t have time for this,” Stiles suddenly declares. He turns and jabs Derek in the chest with his finger. “If you hurt even a hair on my dad’s head, I’ll shove this wolfsbane down your _throat_ , comprende, compadre?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and hurries over to Boyd.

Erica and Isaac actually bare their teeth at Stiles when he hunkers down in front of Boyd, and if Stiles weren’t so annoyed with the world at large at that moment he might have pissed himself. As it stands, he just levels his best Derek-glare at the pair. “You came to me, remember?” he snaps. “Now get his shirt off so I can see what the hell I’m doing.”

He’s a little surprised when Erica and Isaac don’t hesitate before doing as they’re told. Isaac sits up and actually tries to tug at Boyd’s shirt to get it over his head, but Erica simply catches her claws in the fabric and tears the shirt at the seams.

Stiles blinks.

“Alright, then.” He shakes his head and glances back at the supplies piled up on the table. He spots a wet towel and snatches it, pausing long enough to put his handful of aconite petals on the table and pointedly ignoring the snarls Erica and Isaac make when they spot the plant.

He makes quick work of scrubbing most of the blood off of Boyd’s chest so that he can make out the worst of the wound. It seems to have been made by a shotgun, maybe even a sawed-off, and Stiles grimaces. “This just keeps getting better and better,” he mutters to himself. He thinks he hears Erica snort.

Boyd’s mercifully passed out, so that should make things easier on Stiles’ end—in theory, of course. Stiles isn’t misguided enough to think that Boyd won’t snap awake the second he starts digging around for buckshot in his shredded chest.

“What can we do?” Isaac demands softly. He shifts closer to Stiles and hunches to try and catch his eye.

Stiles blinks in surprise and meets Isaac’s gaze. He hesitates for a moment, glancing between Isaac and Erica, and is surprised to find them both looking to him pleadingly.

He draws his shoulders back, steeling himself, and takes a steadying breath. “You’re gonna need to keep him as still as you guys can. Once I start digging around for the bullet fragments, Boyd’s probably going to decide to try and tear my throat out. I’d really appreciate it if he didn’t get the chance.”

Isaac nods quickly. He’s already moving to get a better grip on Boyd by curling his hand around the other boy’s bicep and shifting so one of his legs is pinning Boyd’s thigh.

Erica mirrors Isaac, but she’s frowning at Stiles. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” she demands, voice only a little snide but twice as doubtful.

Stiles shoots her an irritated glance as he splashes whiskey over the blade of the kitchen knife in his hand. “I’ve watched Derek,” he snaps.

Speaking of.

“Hey dad?” he calls, not even glancing up from where he’s swiping a towel over Boyd’s chest again. “You still breathing back there?”

“Last I checked.”

Stiles jumps at how much closer his dad’s voice is than he expected, and he’s actually distracted enough to glance over his shoulder. He spots his dad hovering on the other side of the coffee table, shotgun still firmly in hand but no longer raised. Before he can wonder where Derek has disappeared to, the alpha crouches next to Stiles and sweeps narrowed eyes over Boyd’s torn up chest.

Stiles notices a spider web of darkening veins climbing over the collar of Derek’s jacket and instinctively reaches out, pushing at the alpha’s jaw to bare his neck. Of course, he’s too distracted to spare a thought to what his action probably just translated to in werewolf-speak, so when Derek jerks his chin out of Stiles’ hand and snaps at his fingers, Stiles may or may not let a terrified squeak slip.

Derek’s scowling at him again, but there’s something wary about his gaze, and Stiles instantly realizes that Derek’s quite aware of his own affliction but has pushed its relevance to the backburner in favor of helping Boyd. Stiles grits his teeth and jerks his head towards the coffee table.

“Use your lighter to torch that shit and breathe the fumes,” he commands, before turning his full attention back to Boyd. It doesn’t stop him from speaking, though. Few things do. “It’s in your lungs, right?”

He actually hears Derek’s teeth grind together. Luckily, Stiles is too busy bracing himself to stick a knife in a werewolf to really care just then. He catches Isaac’s eye a second before he takes a deep breath and goes to work.

Boyd comes out snarling, and even with Isaac and Erica weighing him down on either side, his teeth come way too close to Stiles’ face for his comfort. It’s only Derek’s hand on Boyd’s chest that holds him back, and only Derek’s low growl that keeps him there. Stiles’ hands are shaking when he moves in for a second attempt.

“Stiles…”

“Not right now, dad,” he sing-songs, voice too-high with panic that he’s doing his best not to let take the wheel. “I’m kind of in the middle of something!”

It’s probably Stiles pulling the first fragmented pellet from Boyd’s skin and the resulting indigo mist that keeps his dad from saying anything further, but Stiles really isn’t going to be complaining anytime soon. Except that the purple mist seeping from the bullet fragment is making the werewolves in the room partially-shift and snarl, which is definitely _not okay_ , especially with his dad in the room and especially when Stiles is so decidedly caught between the four of them.

Stiles drops the bullet into a day-old glass of Gatorade and hopes that the liquid snuffs out the smoke. “Okay, uhm, dad? Can you like—go hang out upstairs for a while? Or go to Jimmy’s? Yeah! Definitely go to—“

“There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you with these...—I’m not going anywhere, Stiles.” His dad’s voice might waver a little, but Stiles is seriously not going to hold that against him when the man’s got a living room full of people with fangs and claws.

By now Stiles has managed to get a second piece of shrapnel out of Boyd’s chest, but as soon as he makes to dig out the third something changes and Boyd completely wolfs out. The shift is fast enough that it still manages to scare the shit out of Stiles, and despite himself he flails back into the coffee table with a yelp.

Boyd strains against Erica and Isaac in earnest now. A low, pained keen is building up in his chest and working its way past Boyd’s throat, but his eyes are gold and bright with bloodlust, and they’re trained on Stiles. Erica actually wraps a hand around Boyd’s neck and forces his head back into the couch cushion behind him, snapping her teeth in his face and trying to find a way to pin him without blocking Stiles’ access to Boyd’s wounds.

Of course, that’s the moment when Derek pitches into Stiles’ side and everything goes completely sideways.

The instant that their fearless leader loses consciousness, the rest of the pack loses their shit. Isaac actually somehow manages to disentangle himself enough that he slips into the floor in front of Derek and Stiles—more or less landing himself in Stiles’ lap for his efforts—and he reaches for Derek but doesn’t dare touch him, his hands hovering an inch away from his alpha’s skin as he whines low in his throat. Erica now looks absolutely feral, and instead of holding Boyd back she’s pushing him out of her way as they both try to move towards Derek at once. Someone’s snarling, but Stiles really isn’t sure who. Someone’s also speaking in _way too high_ of a voice, talking quick and trying to slip as many expletives into a single breath as they can.

Oh wait. That last one was him.

“Shit! Oh hell, oh man. You really can’t do this right now,” Stiles is rambling, trying to twist out from under Derek’s dead weight with absolutely no success. Between Isaac sprawling in Stiles’ lap and the ridiculous amount of heat radiating from Derek’s skin (and _Jesus Christ_ , was he always this hot? Wait. Of course he’s always been this hot, but has the physical manifestation of said hotness always been there, or is this just a new development that Stiles should be flipping his shit over? Speaking of, _focus_ for fuck’s sake), Stiles is beginning to feel more than a little claustrophobic. “C’mon, Derek. Wake up!”

Stiles is trying to shake Derek awake, but Isaac’s making that even more impossible by trying to steady Derek so he doesn’t tip away from Stiles, and exactly _why_ does Isaac think that’s going to help anything?

“Derek?” Isaac calls, voice high in panic.

“What the hell’s going on, Stiles?” his dad snaps, voice short. Stiles flinches at the familiarity of the tone and glances distractedly back towards his dad. Yep, sure enough. The man’s wearing his cop face.

He shakes his head quickly, managing to free one of his arms just enough to flail in panic. “I don’t know! He’s probably passed out from the wolfsbane poisoning! Shit, it didn’t already get to his heart, did it?” the last part of Stiles’ rant isn’t so much a question as it is him putting a voice to his frantic thoughts, and he’s already trying to tug the neck of Derek’s shirt low on his chest when his words apparently sink in with the rest of the pack.

And really, Stiles had thought they were near-feral before. Now they were feral with _rabies_.

He doesn’t actually hit a full-blown panic until his dad crouches down next to him and lets his eyes rake over Derek, sparing a glance at Isaac who’s actually baring his teeth at Stiles’ dad and curling his hands in Derek’s jacket as if he’s preparing to haul Derek away at the drop of a hat. Which he probably is.

“Dad, you—you—“ Stiles points at the kitchen doorway. “You need to go. Like yesterday.”

His dad ignores him. “What do you need?” he asks instead, lips drawn thin and grim as he eyes the spider web of veins that’s inching way too close to Derek’s heart for Stiles’ comfort.

“What I need is for you to go get in your car and--!”

Boyd unceremoniously pushes Isaac off of Stiles’ lap and leans lean in close to Stiles’ face, snapping his teeth threateningly. Stiles is actually too panicked already to really even react to that, but his dad’s apparently not. At least if one were to judge by the discarded kitchen knife he’s now pressing against Boyd’s neck.

Stiles’ panic meter actually manages to ratchet up another notch at that.

“From what I’ve seen I doubt I could kill you with this thing, kid,” his dad drawls coolly, “But I’m hoping that it’ll at least hurt you a little bit.”

Boyd’s eyes fade back to brown as he eyes Stiles’ dad in clear disdain. However, he miraculously sits back with no more than another gnash of his teeth.

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Alright—first off. Never do that again. Ever,” he sits up straighter, unintentionally causing Derek to slip so that he falls completely into Stiles’ lap. Stiles drags his hands over his hair and tries his best to gather his hopelessly scattered thoughts. “Alright, alright. Let me think. Fuck.”

He glances around the living room before spotting a nearby notepad. He glances from the notepad to Derek, considering, before he nods to himself. “Dad, I need you to roll a joint using some of the petals on the table,” he declares, all business. He doesn’t even hesitate before twisting out from under Derek and shifting the unconscious werewolf fully to the floor. Stiles is prepared for his dad’s reaction before the man can even draw breath to make his incredulous response, so he shoots his dad a quick look. “Don’t even pretend like you don’t know how. I’ve seen your yearbooks. Now c’mon, you wanted to help, so how about you help me save this dude’s life?”

His dad shakes his head in bewilderment but pushes to his feet to do as he’s told. In the meantime, Stiles shoves Derek’s shirt up to his armpits so he has a better view of the dark web of veins that is creeping ever closer to Derek’s heart.

“Can we get a little hustle here, dad?” he snaps, glancing back to find his dad quickly rolling a pinch of the petals in a torn-off piece of paper. Stiles holds out his hand impatiently. “Any time now. Seriously.”

His dad shoves the joint into his hand. “Don’t you think you’ll need a—“

Once the joint is in hand, Stiles quickly reaches into Derek’s front pocket and digs out his lighter. “Don’t get too excited here, buddy,” he mumbles half-heartedly, sitting back on his haunches and taking the joint between his lips. He quickly lights the paper and takes a deep drag, pulling the roll away from his lips just as fast so he can cough into his sleeve at the first burn of the wolfsbane smoke in his lungs.

He ignores the weight of the pack’s combined stare as best he can, though it’s a little harder for Stiles to block out his dad’s piercing gaze than one might have figured.

“Does anyone know CPR?” he snaps, remembering at the last moment that his plan might not actually be as painfully obvious to the others in the room as it was to him. When Erica offers him an uncertain nod, Stiles waves her impatiently to his side. “Just tell me when to breathe.”

Erica’s still frowning as if Stiles has suddenly started speaking Klingon. Admittedly there’s a fair chance that he _has_ , but Stiles is 98% certain that the words coming out of his mouth are English.

Alright, 74% certain.

45% certain. At the very least.

When Erica still hasn’t started doing chest compressions, Stiles shoves her out of the way impatiently. “You know what? Fine. I’ve seen all nine seasons of Scrubs, I can totally do this.”

Erica’s eyes widen and she pushes Stiles back. With a final, uncertain glance, she sets to work.

Stiles watches as Erica settles her hands over Derek’s heart before she starts in with the chest compressions, and he takes another quick drag on the wolfsbane joint. At Erica’s nod he leans down and takes Derek’s jaw in his hand, opening his mouth just enough for Stiles to fit their lips together as he breathes the smoke in his lungs into Derek’s. He holds there for a single breath before sitting back and trying to gauge a response.

Nothing.

His gaze snaps to Erica’s in alarm, but she’s not paying Stiles any attention. She’s still pressing rhythmically against Derek’s chest, mumbling pleas under her breath for Derek to _breathe already_ , and when she looks to Stiles again he takes another hasty drag before breathing the smoke into Derek’s lungs a second time.

The fourth time that they do this, Derek finally chokes and sputters against Stiles’ lips, and Stiles quickly helps the alpha roll onto his side as the wolfsbane smoke filling his lungs snuffs out the poison that had curled so closely to his heart.

Around them the pack breathes a combined sigh of relief and all begin to press closer to their alpha, but Stiles holds out a hand to try and keep them at bay. It’s only after he’s done so that he spares a thought to whether or not the half-crazed werewolves would simply bite off his hand to get it out of their way, but by then the damage is already done.

Surprisingly, Isaac and Boyd actually still at the gesture, though Isaac’s responding whine might shatter Stiles’ heart a bit.

Derek pushes up to his elbow and shakes his head, reminding Stiles a little of a dog shaking off the remnants of sleep after a particularly long nap—not that Stiles would ever dare _tell_ the alpha that. Despite what the world at large seemed to think, Stiles Stilinski does _not_ have a death wish.

Though, seeing as the first thing he does once Derek returns to the land of the living is to smack him upside the back of his head, Stiles could certainly understand any argument to the contrary.

“This is what happens when you don’t listen to me,” he raves with a flail of his arms, “You _die_!”

Derek, predictably, scowls at him as he pushes into a sitting position.

Stiles’ expression pulls into a scowl of his own. “Seriously? Not even a “thank you for saving my life, Stiles—for like _the fifth time_ ”? For Christ’s sake, it’s the freaking swimming pool all over again.”

He ignores his dad’s dark frown at that particular comment in favor of turning his back on Derek completely and shoving at Boyd’s arm. “Just sit back and let me get this over with,” he instructs through gritted teeth.

Boyd cooperates with little more than a raised brow.

Of course, his cooperation only lasts until Stiles starts digging around in Boyd’s chest with a pair of tweezers, so Stiles has to enlist the help of Erica and Isaac again so they can hold Boyd still. Derek still seems to be trying to find his bearings and so he isn’t much help _at all_ , but by this point Stiles is so used to that being the case that he doesn’t even bother calling the alpha on it.

When he drops the final bit of buckshot into the Gatorade-wolfsbane cocktail by his knee, Stiles takes a second to swipe the back of his wrist over his forehead, not finding himself particularly surprised when his wrist comes back slimy with sweat. He sits back on his haunches and observes the mess that’s still Boyd’s chest and is—quite frankly—incredibly proud of himself for not gagging at the sight. Because it’s pretty disgusting.

“Alright, now comes the fun part,” he drawls as he shifts back so he’s sitting on his butt. He twists around to scrape the last of the aconite petals from the coffee table, thinks better of it at the last minute, and then casts a quick glance around him to see where he dropped Derek’s lighter.

His eye twitches a little when he spots Derek holding the lighter out to him, expression blank.

“Wow. Thanks for your contribution, big guy,” he drawls as he snatches the lighter from Derek’s hand, perhaps with a little more vehemence than is strictly called for. He ignores it when Derek raises a singular eyebrow and instead makes quick work of setting the last of the wolfsbane petals on fire.

As expected, everyone in the room that has the ability to sprout claws and pointy teeth grumbles as the wolfsbane burns itself out with only the smallest wisp of indigo smoke, but Stiles doesn’t bother commenting on it at this point. He scrapes the charred petals into his hand before crushing them into ash and turning back to Boyd.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to need you on point here, Derek.”

Derek finally pulls himself out of whatever stupor he’s been fighting for the last fifteen minutes and shifts so he’s crouched shoulder-to-shoulder with Stiles again. He fixes Boyd with a steady crimson gaze, and Stiles can just barely hear the low rumble that’s building in Derek’s chest.

Boyd all but shrinks back into the couch, drawing his shoulders back so Stiles can have easier access to the wound while Isaac and Erica hang from either of his arms.

Stiles swallows. “Uhm—on second thought, maybe you should be the one to do the deed,” he declares, glancing at Derek and shoving the handful of ash in his face. “Y’know, since you’re the alpha and you need to—“

Derek bares his teeth and Stiles flinches away. “Alright! Jesus, fine. But if I die, I promise you I will find a way to _haunt your ass_ , Hale.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls through grit teeth.

“Now wait just a minute,” his dad starts in, apparently finally figuring out the gist of what’s about to go down in his living room. Or at least figuring out that whatever’sgoing down isn’t particularly in the best interest of Stiles’ wellbeing. “No one’s _dying_ in my living room—“

Stiles takes a breath and steadies himself, physically shaking off his nerves. “Oh, how I hope you’re right, padre.”

And then he smears the ash into Boyd’s open wounds.

xxx

Somewhere between Boyd wolfing out _again_ and trying to tear Stiles’ arm off and Derek intervening, Stiles apparently had fallen asleep.

Alright, _fine_. He fainted.

But now, it’s not like anyone could really begrudge him a little nap after the night that he’s had. Not only has Stiles spent the past two hours nursing dying werewolves back to health, but prior to that he’d been chasing an abomination of a supernatural beast around Beacon Hills, tapping into his inner Merlin, and interrogating the aforementioned beast with only a pair of newly turned werewolves as his backup. While locked up together in a loading bay. And _then_ he’d spent a half-hour at Deaton’s making sure Victoria Argent hadn’t succeeded in her plight to kill his best friend.

Throw into all of that mess the drama with his dad, and Stiles has had what one might call a very eventful night.

Or at least, that’s the excuse he’s going with if anyone asks.

When he comes to, he’s sitting in the center of the couch, surrounded by sleeping werewolves.

Blinking himself awake, Stiles is surprised to find he’s somehow wound up using Isaac’s shoulder as a pillow during his little nap. Isaac’s head is tilted against Stiles’ own though, so he guesses he’s not at immediate risk of being mauled by the other boy. Especially since the werewolf appears to be asleep himself, judging by the steady rise and fall of Isaac’s shoulder. Erica’s hair is tickling Stiles’ cheek from where she’s tucked her face under his chin. The smell of her hairspray is a little overwhelming, but the warmth the girl’s putting off from where she’s half-curled over Stiles’ lap more than makes up for it.

He tries to lift his head to see if Erica’s actually asleep, but quickly stills when Isaac snorts irritably in his sleep. Stiles tries not to make any sort of sound when Isaac shifts closer to him in his sleep and freaking _nuzzles_ his head against Stiles’. Frankly, he’s surprised his near-panicked heartbeat hasn’t woken either of the betas, especially since he could swear he’s one werewolf snuggle away from an _actual_ heart attack.

Then a snore sounds from somewhere by Stiles’ knee and tries to make good on the whole heart-failure thing. He can’t help but jerk in surprise, which means he ends up accidentally kneeing Boyd in the back of the dude’s head. Boyd doesn’t do anything more than huff in his sleep and roll his head to rest against Erica’s thigh, though. There’s not even a break in the rumble of not-at-all quiet snores coming from the werewolf’s newly-healed chest.

It’s truly a testament to how exhausted Stiles is that he finds himself settling back into the warmth of the betas and letting his eyes drift closed once more. Then again, that could have something to do with how Erica and Isaac both press even closer against Stiles’ sides when he sinks back into the couch again. The sound of the three betas’ even breathing begins to lull Stiles back to sleep in a matter of minutes.

There’s a quiet din of noise coming from somewhere behind the couch, but it isn’t until later that Stiles will realize the sound was actually that of lowered voices drifting from the kitchen. Even later than that, he’d realize that the voices could only have belonged to his dad and Derek.

xxx

The next time that Stiles awakes, he’s alone on the couch.

Sunlight is peaking in through the slats of the blinds covering the windows on the far wall, and Stiles throws an arm over his eyes in an attempt to shield himself from the too-bright morning light. He takes a moment to assess the sounds he can catch filtering in from the other room. Only a single pair of steps creak across the kitchen floor, and the unsteady clanking of pots and pans doesn’t sound as if more than one set of hands could be rummaging about.

Despite the fact that his dad should be long gone and cajoling his way back into a badge by now, Stiles can’t imagine that it could be anyone but his dad puttering around in the Stilinksi’s modest kitchen. Scott can’t even work a toaster unsupervised, and Stiles has _serious_ doubts that Derek Hale or one of his betas has taken up residence in his kitchen.

Then again, he’s pretty sure that he didn’t dream up the puppy pile he’d been buried under last night. So stranger things have definitely happened.

Then again, out of all the bizzaro shit that’s gone down in Stiles Stilinski’s life, Derek Hale playing house would definitely take the cake.

He’s not surprised to hear his dad’s voice sound from the kitchen a moment later.

“You were always awful at pretending to be asleep.”

Stiles grunts. “’m not pretending.”

“Good to know—now get up before these pancakes get cold.”

That proves to be enough incentive to make Stiles risk blinding via morning sunlight, because he drops his arm from his eyes and lifts his head, taking a hopeful sniff. Sure enough, the familiar smell of his mother’s pancake recipe is wafting from the kitchen.

His stomach gives an eager turn.

With a theatrical groan Stiles sits up and swings his legs over the side of the couch, scrubbing the sleep forcefully from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He doesn’t particularly care if it makes him look like a six year old when he does it. He _does_ care that the sleeves of his flannel are apparently caked in dried blood, though. Because that shit’s just disgusting.

He only stops scowling at his ruined shirt sleeves when he feels his dad watching him from the kitchen doorway.

The Sheriff’s brows are furrowed and his lips are pulled thin, and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s just his imagination or projection or whatever, but he could swear that the man’s sporting more worry lines than he was yesterday. He definitely looks more world-weary than Stiles has ever seen him, and that’s even counting the time his dad worked three 48 hour shifts in a row with little more than a couple of hours of sleep between each one.

For once, Stiles’ go-to method of ignoring a problem until it’s gone does a disappearing act of its own, and he just takes the bull by the horns. So to speak.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you so, _so_ bad, you don’t even know. But I had to protect you. I had to at least try. And—“

“It’s not your job to protect me,” his dad interrupts firmly. The barely controlled fury behind the words takes Stiles by surprise. “I’m supposed to be the one shielding _you_ from the things that go bump in the night, not the other way around.” His voice is hard, his gaze even harder. “You should have come _straight to me_ with this, Stiles—“

“And what would you have done, exactly?” Stiles counters, shoving to his feet so he can meet his dad’s gaze on the same level. Or close enough to it. “Grabbed a couple of your deputies and asked Peter Hale if he’d _pleaseohplease_ cooperate and walk himself right into a holding cell? Or maybe you’d just have gone and joined forces with Chris Argent and his family of _nutjobs_ and spent your 2.5 hours of free time each week honing your crossbow skills. You could’ve even used Scott for target practice!”

His dad’s expression turns thunderous.

“I would have done my damned best to _protect my son_.” His jaw ticks in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Stiles. You’re sixteen! You shouldn’t be—all of this _mess_ is too much for—“

Stiles wets his too-dry lips and does his best not to snort at that. “Yeah, well, we’re still working out appropriate age restrictions on werewolf teeth.”

“Knock it off,” his dad snaps. He paces away from Stiles and makes his way over to the stove, snatching the two plates of pancakes that are waiting there and carrying them over to the table. He hesitates just a beat before setting the plates on the table and half-turning to glance at Stiles over his shoulder, pointedly pulling out one of the chairs for Stiles to take a seat. “Now. You’re gonna sit down and eat your breakfast, and while you’re at it, you’re going to fill me in on every little detail that you’ve failed to mention about your escapades this past year.”

Stiles grimaces but obediently makes his way towards his chair, steeling himself for what promises to be a long and painful (potentially literally, depending on whether or not his dad _actually_ decides to kill him somewhere between Stiles admitting to lighting a man on fire and misappropriating police property in order to kidnap a mutant serial killer) conversation.

He tries to appease himself by remembering that, at the very least, his last meal will be Anna Stilinski’s infamous pancakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story is heavily episode-compliant immediately post-2x08, I've gone ahead and posted a brief rundown of what happened in 'Raving' for anyone who might need a quick refresher. You can find it on my tumblr, here: http://xblessthefall.tumblr.com/post/53566456984 . 
> 
> Also, there is (major)side-character death in this chapter. If you feel you need to know who ahead of time, you can find this in the end notes.

Thanks to his dad’s interrogation over breakfast, Stiles doesn’t make it to his first class. Or his second or third, for that matter. In fact, he barely even makes it to school in time for lunch.

Getting an excused slip from the ladies in the office is a breeze, though. Whoever said that having a parent in law enforcement didn’t have perks was a _lameass_ , because Stiles is fairly sure that his dad’s connections could let him get away with murder.

Which probably isn’t something that he should be bragging about, seeing as his father _is_ basically letting the whole accessory-to-murder thing slide. But in Stiles’ defense, Peter Hale totally got what was coming to him.

He’s just barely dropped into his seat next to Scott in their Chemistry class when Mr. Harris singles him out. Unsurprisingly. What’s surprising is that the Chemistry-teacher-from-hell is handing him a note to see the principal and informing Stiles that it’s his “lucky day”. Rather than try and figure out exactly _why_ a visit to the principal’s office could possibly be considered lucky, Stiles simply snags the note, shoulders his bag, and makes his way out of the classroom with only a quirked eyebrow exchanged with Scott-- who’s actually looking a bit pale all the sudden. Victoria’s wolfsbane-diffuser must have seriously done a number on the poor guy if Scott’s still feeling its effects so many hours later.

It’s only once he’s halfway to the principal’s office that understanding hits Stiles.

His principal is Gerard Argent.

 _Oh_.

He’s just considering fishing out his phone and sending a quick text to someone—Allison, Derek, _his dad_ (oh hey, he’s actually an option now—that’s kind of awesome)-- when the office door opens ahead and Gerard himself steps into the hallway to meet him.

Stiles tries not to gulp too audibly.

“Ah, Mr. Stilinski. I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry about that. Mr. Harris can get a little long-winded.”

Gerard’s lips quirk, but Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that the expression has little to do with his awesome wit.

“Well, let’s not waste anymore time then.” Gerard steps back and gestures for Stiles to precede him through the main office.

Warily, Stiles does so. The first thing that he notices upon setting foot in the school’s main office is that the secretary’s desk is conspicuously empty. More importantly, this particular desk has recently been overtaken by Victoria Argent. And it’s empty.

Gerard trails behind Stiles into the office and follows his gaze, his eerie smile returning when he notices what had caught Stiles’ attention.

“Ah, yes. Victoria is feeling rather under the weather at the moment, so she elected to spend the day at home.”

Stiles has serious issues believing that someone as badass as Victoria freaking Argent would let a head cold bench her. In fact, he barely refrains from asking if Victoria’s cold has anything to do with her little wolfsbane vaporizer backfiring on her last night. Instead, he drops into the chair across from Gerard’s desk once they enter the man’s private office, knee bouncing nervously as he waits for Gerard to close the door behind himself.

The old man’s face is inscrutable as he makes his way around the large desk in the center of the room, and frankly it freaks Stiles the hell _out_.

“So uhm—if this is about that toilet thing, then I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it.”

Gerard raises an eyebrow blithely.

Stiles clears his throat. “Or that thing with coach’s Independence Day jacket. But I mean that was practically a public service—“

“An omega was spotted on the outskirts of town last night.” When Gerard finally speaks, his tone is dark and unforgiving. And fucking terrifying. “We have every reason to believe that it was searching for Hale.”

Stiles sputters. “What? Why would—wait, _was_? Did you already _kill_ _it_?” Stiles can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice any more than he can keep the contempt from his face.

Gerard’s lips actually quirk in almost-amusement. Stiles feels his stomach turn. “No. We haven’t touched the omega just yet. As things stand, learning its agenda is our top priority.”

“And since when have you been a fan of asking questions first, killing innocents later?”

“I have never taken the life of an innocent,” Gerard refutes calmly. He even looks like he’s deluded enough to believe it.

Stiles’ lips twist mercilessly. “No. I guess that was more your daughter’s calling, am I right?”

He watches in smug satisfaction as Gerard’s calm façade cracks right down the center, leaving his genteel mask in ruins.

The old man surges to his feet and slams his palms on the desk in front of him, looming over Stiles as his eyes narrow. His chest is heaving from the exertion of moving so quickly, and it really doesn’t make him look anything but crazed.

Stiles can’t help but shove his chair back a pace or two, his feet scrambling against the old wood flooring.

“Kate was a _hero_ , you insolent child. She took out an entire family of monsters, risking her very life to get close enough to—“

And just like that, Stiles forgets that he’s terrified of the old man in front of him.

“Risked her life? Are you for real right now? That psychotic _bitch_ burned down a house full of innocent people!“

“Innocent?” Gerard snarls. “There’s no such thing as an innocent werewolf, Mr. Stilinski, and those who choose to consort with their kind are no better.”

Stiles’ jaw drops open. “Wow. That was a poorly veiled stab if I’ve ever heard one.” He pushes to his feet, shoving the chair even further back with his hands. “Who do you even think you are, to call those kind of shots? You hunters—you think you’re fucking _gods_ , the way you go around deciding who lives and who dies. Well guess what, grandpa? The monsters in this town aren‘t the ones with a furry disposition.”

Gerard’s gone dangerously still now, expression tightening in blatant outrage. But then his expression suddenly clears, like a slate wiped clean, and his lips actually curl in a slow smile. It somehow reminds Stiles of a snake eyeing its prey seconds before it eats them, and he can’t shake the feeling that the resemblance may not be all that coincidental.

“Do you play chess, Mr. Stilinski?”

The question throws Stiles. He sputters and shakes his head, his bewilderment tangling his words before he manages to form a semi-coherent sentence. “Wh--I-- No, actually. I’m a, I’m more of a Dungeons and Dragons, World of Warcraft sorta guy. You know how it is.” Actually, he’s pretty sure Gerard Argent has no idea what he even just said. “I had this great-aunt that used to play all the time, though. I think she actually won some sort of championship back in the day-- or at least that’s what she--”

“Well there’s no time like the present to learn, is there?” Gerard steamrolls smoothly, just speaking over Stiles’ rambling as if he’s not even talking. Stiles gapes as the old man turns and retrieves a chess set from its place on the old bookcase behind the principal’s desk.

Gerard gestures to the chair Stiles had been sitting in, apparently unconcerned that it had been shoved halfway across the room in Stiles’ anger. “Sit,” he commands, even as his attention shifts to clearing his desk and then setting the board. “We can discuss the situation with the Omega while we play a quick game.”

Stiles clears his throat, shifting on his feet uncomfortably and casting a longing glance at the door. “Actually, I’d probably better head back to class--” he tries, but Gerard predictably denies him the out.

“Nonsense. That clown Harris is a poor excuse for an educator--I think we both know you won‘t be missing much.” Gerard actually glances up from the chess board to smirk at Stiles at that, and if he weren’t, y’know, _Gerard_ and a _psychotic piece of shit_ , Stiles would revel in the solidarity of a good ol’ Harris-bash fest. As it is, he can only grab the indicated chair, reluctantly drag it over to Gerard’s desk, and make a show of slouching into it.

“This is going to be one of those creepy-symbolic chess games like in the movies, isn’t it?”

Gerard huffs out something resembling a laugh. “It’s true that I find practical application to be the most efficient method of teaching,” his eyes dart up to meet Stiles’, razor-sharp, “but I also believe you’re something of a quick study, Mr. Stilinski. Perhaps the veiled threats will be unnecessary.”

Stiles swallows thickly. “Who needs pretense, right?”

Gerard’s lips quirk in something like approval before he takes a seat behind the desk. He picks up one of the chess pieces-- apparently he’s chosen to play black to match the color of his soul-- and holds the piece out for Stiles’ scrutiny. “Exactly. Now let’s begin our little lesson with the pawn.”

xxx

Stiles finds Derek lurking at the abandoned train station.

He doesn’t bother waiting until he’s within normal earshot before he begins speaking, words tumbling over each other in Stiles’ rush to get them all out.

“We have a problem. Gerard and his men spotted an omega circling the town last night,” Stiles hopes Derek doesn’t notice how much Stiles’ voice is shaking. “They think he’s looking for you—for a pack.”

Derek steps down from the railcar with his hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets. Stiles tries not to twitch under the once-over the other man gives him.

“I know,” Derek finally allows.

Stiles huffs in disbelief. “You know,” he repeats incredulously. Then he flails his arms and actually stomps his foot. “You _know_ —so what the hell are you going to do about it?”

Derek just stares at Stiles emotionlessly. It makes whatever fragile hold Stiles had managed to get on his panic slip. “Why the hell would you bite Victoria? The Argents were just looking for a reason to come down on us, and you went and handed it to them on a silver fucking platter! They’re going to use this omega as an excuse to turn Beacon Hills into a goddamned war zone. You’ve got to send this guy packing, and you’ve got to do it _tonight_.”

Something in Derek’s expression shifts, and Stiles watches as his eyes darken. He can actually hear the alpha’s teeth grinding as Derek’s jaw clenches tight, and Stiles notices that the other man’s hands are no longer shoved in his jacket pockets. Instead, they’re curled into fists at his sides--almost as if to keep his nails from lengthening to claws.

Before Stiles’ fight or flight response ( _fine_ , his flight or hit the floor and play dead response) can kick in, Derek’s looming in front of him, a solid mass of werewolf that’s practically vibrating with tension. And seriously, they’ve got to work on the dude’s respect for personal boundaries, because the alpha is now close enough that they’ve got to be breathing the same air.

He’s about to say as much when his words just shrivel up and die in his throat because, up close? It’s even more terrifying when Derek’s eyes bleed to red.

“What did he say to you?” Derek grits out.

“He—I don’t know what—“

A low growl builds in the alpha’s chest. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles jerks his chin from Derek’s grasp and stumbles back, flailing his arms helplessly. “—my dad, Derek. He threatened _my dad_. And we both know that the Argents aren’t exactly the type to waste breath on idle threats!” Stiles’ voice has gone a tad hysterical, but he really can’t be bothered to care. Frankly, he doesn’t even give half a shit about the frustrated tears he can feel building in his eyes, either. He just doesn’t have that luxury.

The only thing that Stiles can care about in that moment is finding this omega and running it out of Hale territory.

And Derek’s just standing there and staring at Stiles, expression as inscrutable as ever.

“Why are we still standing here?” Stiles demands. He doesn’t think, just reaches out and plants his hands on Derek’s chest and shoves uselessly. “Rally the troops. Assemble the pack. Call out the cavalry—“

Derek grabs Stiles by his wrists. “Doing that would only play right into Argent’s hand. Just give me a second to think—“

Stiles tries to struggle free from Derek’s grip. “We don’t have a second!” he snarls, shoving into Derek’s space when the alpha fails to release his wrists. “Gerard probably has one of his lackeys tailing my dad this _second_. What part of that aren’t you getting?”

Derek’s face tightens in anger, but Stiles is relentless.

“The Argents already took your family from you, Derek. Don’t let them take mine away too.”

It’s like Stiles flipped a switch. Derek’s entire expression darkens, but before Stiles can actually fear that he’s gone too far, Derek shoves Stiles away from him in favor of pulling out his cell phone. Stiles watches warily as Derek presses a number on his speed dial before holding the phone to his ear.

“Boyd. Gather the others and get to the house.”

xxx

As it turns out, “the house” is werewolf code for the old Hale house.

Stiles should probably have seen that coming.

He and Derek arrive to find the pack already waiting on the crumbling front porch. Isaac and Erica look fidgety and nervous before Derek even climbs out of the Camaro. Boyd seems unnervingly calm.

“What’s going on?” Erica demands. Stiles is impressed at how valiantly she’s trying to hide her unease, but he figures the hair toss is a bit overkill. No one present is actually buying her head-bitch act. Especially not with the way she and Isaac are shifting so uneasily on their feet as they look toward Derek for an explanation for pulling them from their classes.

To his credit, Derek doesn’t bother beating around the bush. “An omega is circling the town, and the Argents have taken notice.” He looks between the three betas, gaze heavy. “It’s only a matter of time before they make their move. We need to find this omega and head it off before they get the chance.”

Isaac frowns. “Shouldn’t we find out what it wants first?”

“It’s seeking a pack,” Stiles volunteers. He knows that his voice comes out stilted, but he doubts the betas will really notice. “Unfortunately for him, all of the spots on Derek’s Team of Misfits are full up.”

“Isn’t that Derek’s call?” Erica drawls, arching a brow at Stiles and folding her arms over her chest.

Despite himself, Stiles can’t help but flinch at the blonde’s words. He’s been doing his best to avoid that little gem of wisdom, especially since he knows that Derek’s latest agenda seems to be filled with building the numbers of his pack. He chances a glance at the alpha and is surprised to find him eying Erica unhappily.

“You’re right, it is my call,” Derek snaps, “And that’s why we’re going to send this omega packing.”

Another car rolls up the drive then, kicking up dust and gravel as it slides to a smooth stop just short of where Derek and Stiles are standing. Stiles glances over in time to see Scott and Allison climb out of the car. Their doors shut in near-unison as they both move to stand level with Stiles.

“You know about the omega,” Scott hazards, glancing between everyone gathered with uncharacteristic recognition. It doesn’t take a lot to gather that Allison must have filled Scott in, though. Especially given the uneasy clench of her jaw as Allison folds her arms over her middle and looks to Derek.

“I overheard my dad talking to grandpa at lunch,” she explains.

Derek nods tightly. Then he catches Stiles’ eye, and his expression is so intense that it sends a shudder down Stiles’ spine. The determination he sees in the alpha’s expression is fierce, and in that moment Stiles has no doubt that Derek will do everything within his abilities to get rid of this omega-- because more than anyone else could, Derek understands what is at stake should they fail.

Stiles holds the other man’s gaze and a gives a short nod of his own.

Isaac breaks the moment by clapping his hands together and sauntering down the decrepit steps of the porch. “Well then, I guess we’ve got some hunting of our own to do.”

Erica smirks before following on Isaac’s heels, bumping shoulders with Boyd coyly as she passes him. “Let’s get this party started,” she purrs.

xxx

Of course, like everything else that happens in Stiles’ freaking life, things go to shit the second they actually locate the omega. Because the omega’s a goddamned _kid_.

The pack’s broken up into groups upon reaching the edge of the preserve-- Isaac with Erica, Scott with Allison, and Boyd with Stiles. Since he’s the most experienced with tracking, Derek searches by himself so he won’t be slowed down by one of the humans or less experienced betas.

So naturally, Boyd and Stiles are the ones who actually stumble across the Omega.

It’s near twilight and they’ve just begun picking their way through a denser section of the forest when Boyd suddenly holds out an arm, his eyes slipping to golden as he narrows them on something within the brush. Stiles pointedly _does not_ move, but he cranes his neck and squints in an effort to try and see what Boyd’s seeing. It’s dark and the attempt is useless, but Stiles doesn’t get the chance to be put off because Boyd is suddenly fifteen feet ahead of him and yanking someone out of the thick brush.

The kid comes out snarling. He’s caked with dirt and grime and blood, but even with his desperate attempts to free himself from Boyd’s hold, it’s obvious that he’s not exactly the grown-ass omega that they were expecting. In fact, Boyd is so surprised when he realizes he’s holding a thrashing kid up by a dirty collar, he drops the child and scrambles back towards Stiles.

Luckily, Derek chooses that moment to put in an appearance, and he catches the omega before he can book it back into the woods and disappear. Derek grabs the boy by the crook of his neck and stays him with a fearsome growl, his face fully wolfed out and his crimson eyes glowing in the darkness.

The kid cowers and quickly bares his neck, and the whimper he emits nearly breaks Stiles’ goddamn heart.

The rest of the pack arrives shortly after, undoubtedly following the sound of the alpha’s roar. Everyone stills as they take in the omega, recognition dawning on their faces one at a time. Allison slowly lifts a hand to her mouth in horror before backing into Scott. For once, Scott doesn’t even seem to notice Allison at his side, because he’s frowning at the kid in Derek’s hold with such intense disbelief that Stiles actually fears his friend has broken something. Erica and Isaac exchange a bewildered glance before they both look to Derek, expressions begging the alpha to make sense of what they’re seeing.

Derek carefully releases his grip on the boy once he seems sure that the omega won’t make a run for it. It’s really not a comfort that the sharp angle of his brows says he has no more idea what to make of the situation than the rest of them.

The boy carefully backs away from Derek, being sure not to turn his back on the alpha or make any sort of sudden movement. When he sniffles wetly though, Stiles loses his internal battle and moves to comfort the frightened omega. He pointedly ignores Derek’s warning growl as he puts a careful hand on the kid’s head, moving so that he’s within the boy’s sights before carefully hunkering down in front of him.

Stiles does his best not to roll his eyes when he feels Derek’s legs pressing against his back before he can even catch his balance. Instead, he tries to offer the kid in front of him what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “Hey there, buddy,” he greets carefully, dropping his hand from the kid’s head to hold it out for the omega to shake, “My name’s Stiles. What’s yours?”

The boy’s bright blue eyes flick over Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles gives into the urge to roll his eyes this time. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Derek. “Don’t worry about him, dude. He’s all bark and no bite.” Stiles does his best not to squeak when Derek’s hand drops heavily on his shoulder and tightens in clear warning. The little boy must sense his discomfort though, because his eyes shift to a bright blue as they flash up to Derek, and he bares his teeth in unease.

Derek’s grip lessens, but he doesn’t remove his hand from Stiles’ shoulder.

Surprisingly, Isaac drops to his haunches next to Stiles then and flashes the boy a smile that could melt icecaps. “Easy, buddy. That’s just how they show they care.”

Stiles does his best not to choke at that, fails miserably, and turns to smack Isaac’s arm in disbelief. “Dude!”

Isaac doesn’t even have the decency to flinch. He quirks an eyebrow at the omega and lets his grin widen. “You see what I mean?”

The kid’s eyes fade back to human hazel as he watches Isaac curiously, lips doing their best not to curl into a reluctant smile of their own.

Isaac must see this too, because he quickly continues speaking in a light, easy tone when he notices the boy’s attention straying back up to Derek. The distraction works, and the boy’s eyes snap back to Isaac. “I’m Isaac. You’ve already met Stiles here, and the big guy looming behind him is our alpha, Derek.”

The pride filling Isaac’s voice when he refers to Derek as his alpha is evident even to Stiles, and Stiles can’t help a quick glance up at Derek to gauge his reaction.

It’s really not unexpected to find Derek’s expression carefully schooled, but Stiles still recognizes the surprise in lurking behind Derek’s gaze nonetheless. He subtly bumps his elbow against the alpha’s shin to catch his attention, and when Derek glances down at Stiles, he offers the other man a quick and cheesy thumbs up.

Derek’s jaw tightens in feigned annoyance and he quickly turns his attention back to the omega, because seriously-- dude’s allergic to feelings.

Stiles stifles a sigh and shifts his own attention back to the matter at hand just in time to catch the omega mumbling his own name.

“Noah,” the boy glances between Isaac, Stiles, and Derek uncertainly. “I’m-- I’m Noah.”

Stiles tries another reassuring grin. “Nice to meet you, Noah. So uh… what brings you to Beacon Hills?”

Isaac shoots Stiles a pinched look at this, clearly annoyed at Stiles’ lack of tact. But whatever, cute kid or not, Stiles doesn’t have time for beating around the bush. Unless there’s an omega hiding in said bush, of course.

Noah swallows reflexively, but the way that his gaze strays straight to Derek is telling enough.

“You’re looking for a pack,” Derek says, not even bothering to make the words into a question. His eyes are hard as he scrutinizes the little boy. Stiles thinks that he’s probably keeping them alpha-crimson in some sort of power-play move to intimidate the omega. “What’s a runt like you doing out on your own?”

Noah’s teeth lengthen and he gnashes them irritably. “I’m not a runt,” he growls, and Stiles should probably keep to himself how much the kid resembles a drenched kitten for how intimidating he’s _not_. “And my family--” the boy’s words dissolve into a distressed whine, “--they’re gone. They’re d-dead.”

Derek tenses so quickly against Stiles’ back that Stiles instinctively grabs the wrist of the hand still on his shoulder. In all honesty, he’s a little thrown when Derek doesn’t simply jerk his wrist out of Stiles’ grip.

“What happened to them?” Derek finally grits out. He does nothing to acknowledge Stiles’ attempt at comfort, but the alpha‘s hand still weighs heavy on Stiles‘ shoulder.

Noah’s doing little better than Derek for all that he’s begun shaking, but when he speaks, his reply comes out on a steady growl. “ _Hunters_.”

Stiles feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. With a single word, he knows that any chances he has of Derek turning this omega away are gone, and with them his dad’s immunity. He’s sure that each of the wolves in the clearing hears it when his heart begins hammering against his ribcage. He feels Isaac’s gaze swing to him from the werewolf’s place at his side, but Stiles can’t meet his gaze-- or the gaze of the little omega in front of him who’s actually reaching out as if to comfort Stiles.

Stiles wrenches out from Derek’s grip and stands, turning his back on the group to drag his hands over his head and will himself out of a mounting panic attack. He hears footsteps crunching on dried leaves behind him and knows that Scott’s following him, but Stiles doesn’t turn to acknowledge his friend and instead paces his way deeper into the trees. He doesn’t stop until Scott grabs his arm and turns him.

That’s when Stiles realizes it’s not Scott that’s followed him--it’s Erica.

Stiles blinks, bewildered.

“He’s not going to risk your dad, Stiles,” Erica says, voice free of the sarcasm that’s seemed to come packaged with Derek‘s bite. She gentles her grip on Stiles’ arm to something he supposes is meant to be comforting. “Derek won’t forget what’s at stake.”

Stiles swallows thickly. He can‘t force himself to meet her eye. “How do you know about that?”

Erica snorts lightly. “I heard Gerard called you to his office for a chat at school today. I’m guessing he made a few threats about what would happen if this omega hangs around? At least judging by your sudden camaraderie with Derek and the fact that you’re both so insistent on kicking the kid out of town.” She looks him over appraisingly. “I’ve seen you fearing for your own skin a time or two by now, but I can tell that this is different. The rest is just an educated guess. Am I wrong?”

Stiles feels his jaw tighten. “No. No, you’re not wrong,” he admits begrudgingly. He punches out a sigh and narrows his eyes at Erica, pursing his lips. “Underneath all the hair and the crazy, you’re actually pretty sharp, aren’t you?” Recognizing his poor word choice, he quickly shoots Erica a glare and continues before she can get a snarky reply in edgewise. “And I don’t mean the claws or the teeth.”

Erica flashes him a grin to show off those very teeth, but there’s no missing the pleased tilt to her lips. “Well I _am_ the best lab partner you’ve ever had, aren’t I?” She bumps her hip against his playfully before hooking her arm through Stiles’ and tugging him back towards the others. “C’mon. Scott and Derek need you to mediate.”

Sure enough, even Stiles can pick out the sounds of Scott and Derek arguing through the trees as they draw closer to the group. He feels a familiar tension headache beginning at the sound of the two men going at it--the response is basically Pavlovian by now.

“Great,” he deadpans.

“--you can’t just leave this kid to fend for himself! He’ll be caught by hunters in no time! He won’t stand a chance!”

“You think I don’t know that, Scott?” Derek snarls, and uh oh-- that’s definitely his alpha voice coming out to play. “Gerard and his men won’t let Noah survive the night if we send him on his way. But if we let him stay, then we’re putting your _best friend_ and his dad in danger! So tell me, Scott--tell me what I’m supposed to do, here!”

“Woah, guys-- c’mon!” Stiles cries as he and Erica reach the group. He holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture as he breaks free of the trees and moves to claim his place between Derek and Scott. From the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac hanging back with Noah tucked against his side, curled over the kid like he’s trying to shield the omega from the yelling. Noah’s peeking through Isaac’s arms and looking between Derek, Scott, and Stiles in tearful horror.

Stiles gestures wildly towards Isaac and Noah. “You’re freaking the kid out! Seriously, knock it off!”

Apparently that’s the cue Allison was waiting for, because she clears her throat and moves to stand next to Scott before jumping into the foray. “I can talk to my dad. They couldn’t have known Noah was so young--”

Derek’s gaze snaps to Allison, and the force behind the glare is scathing. “Do you honestly think that age matters to the Argents and their minions?”

The implications are clear, and they steal the very oxygen from the forest surrounding them.

Allison’s mouth works, expression an interesting mix of indignant fury and shame, but she can’t seem to formulate a response to that. Though seriously, who _could?_ Scott places a hand on her shoulder in comfort and draws her closer against his side, shooting Derek a glare that would cow lesser men.

Derek’s really never been a lesser man, though. He turns his own scowl to Stiles and gestures to their surroundings almost helplessly. “I don’t--” he bites the words off sharply, shaking his head as if they taste of poison. But Stiles still hears them loud and clear.

I don’t know what to do.

And maybe that’s what breaks Stiles in the end. Not just that Derek’s so near to admitting that he _doesn’t_ have all the answers, despite his best attempts to posture and prove otherwise. No, it’s that Derek’s doing his best to fight his instincts that have to be screaming at him to protect this young omega, because he knows that doing so would be signing a death sentence for Stiles’ dad--maybe even for Stiles himself. Derek’s looking to Stiles for help for the second time in as many days, and he‘s doing it in front of his pack and Scott and _Allison_ , and he‘s trying to put Stiles‘ dad‘s safety above everything else, even when ’everything else’ means the life of a little _kid_ -and _something_ about the moment shatters Stiles’ resolve to pieces that catch in his throat and shred his voice.

“Noah’s gonna come with us,” he finally says, and he hopes the others have the decency not to call him out how his voice wavers. “We can’t just leave him out here for Gerard and his men to pick off.”

Derek’s brow pulls low into a frown. “And what about--”

“We can keep an eye on my dad. We’ve got enough werewolves in our ranks to keep someone on him at all times, right? And Allison can at least _try_ to talk some sense into Gerard.” He throws a pleading glance at Allison, who’s quick to firmly nod in confirmation. “We can’t send this kid off to certain death.” Stiles turns to catch Derek’s eyes and hold them with his own. “We wouldn’t survive that, and _he_ wouldn’t survive the night.”

Derek searches Stiles’ eyes for something before finally giving a short nod.

The tension seems to bleed out of the rest of the pack at the alpha’s consent, and Noah’s grip on Isaac’s shirt loosens as he looks to Derek hopefully.

“Isaac-- I want you to ride back with Stiles in the Camaro,” Derek begins gruffly, looking between the group gathered with eyes that are finally back to human hazel. “Boyd, you can take Erica and Noah in your truck. Allison and Scott will go straight to the Argents’ to try and negotiate a deal with Gerard.” Nobody misses Derek’s voice hardening as he addresses the couple, leaving no question that his words are anything but a request. Luckily, it seems that the trio is actually on the same page for once, because Scott doesn‘t jump to argue with the alpha and Allison is already pulling her keys from her pocket. “I’ll follow Boyd’s truck on foot to ensure no hunters are tailing Noah, then I‘ll swing by the station and check on the Sheriff.”

Derek’s gaze narrows as it swings back to Isaac. “You’ll stay with Stiles tonight.”

Isaac nods, holding Derek’s eye as if the pair is having another conversation entirely through their eyebrows.

Derek tosses Isaac the keys to his car. “Get moving. It’s still early-- the hunters could make a move at any time.”

And with that grim parting, the group all turns to pick their way through the forest in the direction of the Hale house, but not before Derek catches Stiles’ eye one last time and gives him a final nod in parting. Stiles returns the gesture and tries not to let his mind stray to sheer panic just yet. He’d at least like to wait until Derek Hale is out of werewolf-earshot before having a total breakdown, thank you very much.

Luckily, it doesn’t really hit him until Stiles is watching Boyd boost Noah into his pickup truck. Watching Erica and Boyd fuss over settling the boy in the back seat of Boyd’s extended cab, Stiles realizes that he essentially just sacrificed his dad’s safety in exchange for the life of a total stranger-- defenseless kid or not. He might as well have painted a giant target on his dad’s back for all that Gerard is going to care.

And Gerard won’t have any problems making it all look like an accident. Stiles’ dad works a risky job-- all it would take is one of Gerard’s lackeys armed and laying low on the sidelines of a routine call. A domestic dispute gone wrong, a driver pulling a gun instead of his license and registration at a speed trap, an interrupted robbery attempt where the perp spooks and fires off an accidental shot. A single bullet at the right moment, and Gerard could even have some sorry bastard handy to take the murder rap, make it look like he or his men were never there.

Then again, Gerard’s never been much for subtlety, so he’s even more likely to place a call himself to get his dad isolated and alone. Why risk witnesses, right?

Isaac’s there to catch him when Stiles’ knees buckle beneath the tidal wave of guilt and panic, so at least he doesn’t knock himself unconscious on Derek’s passenger door on his way down. Not that it matters all that much--his vision whites out before he can hit the ground anyways.

xxx

When he comes to, Stiles is sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro with his head tipped against the window. He almost feels too warm, so he reluctantly lifts his head to squint at the ac controls to ensure Isaac hasn’t turned on the heater in some misguided attempt at chivalry. He blinks when he feels heavy leather nudging against his cheek as he does so, and that’s when Stiles realizes that he’s got a frighteningly familiar leather jacket tucked tightly around him.

He’s sure his expression has to be hilarious, but when Isaac glances over at him there’s no trace of a mocking grin or smirk on the other teen’s features. In fact, Isaac’s brows are knit low in naked concern.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Isaac still drawls, but with an appalling lack of snark. His attention’s divided equally between the road and Stiles now, but Stiles isn’t sure his brain’s online enough to offer a snarky remark about safe driving just yet. “How’re you feeling?”

And _that_ sobers Stiles up.

He slumps in his seat and scrubs a hand over his face, wrinkling his nose when the sleeve of Derek’s stupid jacket gets in the way. Great. Now he’s going to reek of eau de Derek. The thought makes Stiles thump his head against the headrest behind him.

“Y’know, just feeling like I betrayed my dad to save a total stranger,” Stiles finally quips, voice flat. “I guess it’s a Tuesday.”

He can practically feel Isaac’s disapproval smacking him over the head from the next seat.

“You didn’t betray anybody, Stiles.” Isaac takes a sharp turn off of the highway towards Stiles’ neighborhood. Stiles is beginning to seriously wonder if this Camaro drives like a maniac on its own, or if shitty driving is just some sort of prerequisite for getting behind its wheel. “You made the right call. That kid would be dead before sunrise if we didn’t take him in, and Derek would never have made the call without you backing his play.”

He cuts golden eyes back over to Stiles, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “You saved Noah’s life.”

Stiles swallows and sinks lower in his seat, catching himself tugging Derek’s jacket tighter around him and biting back a curse. He’s about to just shrug the damn thing off when he glances back at the road and spots the smoke curling over the trees around the bend.

He freezes.

“Drive faster.”

Isaac frowns and turns his eyes from Stiles to glance down at his speed gauge incredulously. “Dude, I’m already breaking the speed limit. Derek will kill me if--”

Stiles shifts in his seat so he can stomp on Isaac’s foot and press it harder against the accelerator.

“Stiles!” Isaac squawks, doing his best to keep the wheel steady as the Camaro lurches forward and the speedometer ticks higher and higher. “What the fuck are you--!”

Isaac’s tirade dies as he catches sight of the smoke as well.

“Shit.” He shoves Stiles away from him with a little too much force, but Stiles is too distracted to even wince when his elbow jars against the window behind him. “Hold on,” Isaac commands. He presses down on the accelerator until the Camaro whines in protest, and when Isaac cuts the corner onto Stiles’ drive the car nearly careens into a ditch. It’s only due to Isaac’s werewolf reflexes that the Camaro stays on the road at all.

Stiles forgets to breathe when his house finally comes into sight.

Flames are rising from the lowest level of the house and climbing to the second story, licking against sun-faded shutters that frame windows now empty of glass, the smoke they spotted over the trees pushing out from the busted windows on both stories. The skimpy garden Stiles and his dad have tried their best to cultivate is lost to the flames that have begun to curl from beneath the porch--even the tree outside Stiles’ bedroom window is alight. One of its limbs breaks free as Isaac skids to a sloppy stop in the driveway, landing on the hood of the Sheriff’s cruiser with a resonating crunch.

The shattered glass of the windshield falls to the driveway like pixie dust, casting a reflection of dancing flames across the drive.

Stiles scrambles from the Camaro before it‘s come to a full stop, screaming for his dad as he races across the lawn and scales the porch steps, dodging over the fire climbing from beneath the wooden stairs. He thinks he hears Isaac yelling for him somewhere behind him, but everything is like white noise in Stiles’ head, drowned out by the roar of the flames that try to devour him the instant he kicks in his front door.

“Dad! Where the hell are you?!” he screams, trying not to choke on the smoke that’s making it so hard to breathe. He barely dodges a falling beam, but when Stiles jumps back, one of the floorboards beneath his sneakers gives. Strong arms suddenly grab him around his middle and haul him back, and they’re the only thing that keep Stiles from plummeting into the fiery basement below.

He watches in horror as flames rise through the new opening in the floor, mere inches away from Stiles‘ sneakers. His feet scrabble for purchase as the arms around his middle continue to drag him back, but then Stiles regains his bearings enough to begin fighting those arms as he screams for his dad once more.

“Stiles, stop! Please--stop fighting me!” Scott pleads, his arms only tightening around Stiles as he tries to navigate his way back out of the house. Then there’s a sudden, horrible groan from above and Scott curls over him, shielding Stiles’ body with his own as flaming debris from the second story rains down on them. Scott groans tightly in pain, but he quickly pulls Stiles back to his feet and continues herding him back towards the way they came.

Stiles fights Scott every step of the way. He actually manages to get away from his friend when the flames reach his dad‘s gun cabinet, because suddenly there are shots going off that cause both boys to flinch and cover their heads instinctively--but Stiles is the first to recover this time. He takes the chance to break free of Scott’s hold and makes a mad dash towards the kitchen, clumsily dodging around piles of detritus and debris with every stride.

Something catches Stiles hard across his stomach, and it feels like he ran into a goddamned wall. It knocks the breath right out of him and makes him choke on thick, acrid smoke on his next inhale. Sputtering and choking against the heavy smoke, he pushes against the obstacle to shove it out of his way, but his hands unexpectedly find skin.

“Don’t look.” Derek growls in his ear, forcefully yanking Stiles away from the kitchen with disgusting ease.

But not before Stiles catches sight of his dad’s uniformed legs and bare feet splayed on the kitchen floor, barely visible around the angle of the cabinets.

Stiles screams until his throat is raw as Derek manhandles him back through the inferno that was once the Stilinski’s living room. He climbs Derek until he’s clawing at his shoulders, stretching one arm out as if he can somehow still reach his dad’s prone form. Tears mix with ash on Stiles‘ face and blur his vision, and each breath is harder to take as smoke weighs thick in his lungs.

It doesn’t stop him from screaming for his dad or swearing at Derek, nor from flailing and kicking with everything he has as the hazy California night sky swims into view above him.

Suddenly there are more hands on Stiles, and he thinks the din of noise around him might be voices. He can’t really be sure since his head feels like it‘s stuffed full of cotton, the sensation not unlike when he and Scott had gone to a concert their freshman year and stood too close to the speakers. He figures his hearing’s probably jacked from the roar of the fire.

Stiles feels himself sliding down Derek’s body as the alpha tries to set him on his feet, but the hands on Stiles’ hips are the only things keeping his legs underneath him, and he guesses that Derek figures that out, because the hands on his hips tighten rather than disappear.

Stiles’ eyes catch on his dad’s crushed cruiser over Derek‘s shoulder, gaze drawn by how the white paint is reflecting a strange pattern of blues and reds that Stiles doesn’t think are usual for a fire. However, before he can place the familiar trade of colors, he feels a sharp pinch in his right arm, and then everything goes blissfully blank.

xxx

Mark Stilinski is buried as the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

The official report from the fire marshal states that the fire started on the back porch, sparked by a cigarette that wasn’t fully snuffed out falling from the ash tray on the porch and into the bushes below. Due to the recent heat wave, the bushes had lit up in a matter of minutes, and the fire had spread to the crawl space, then the basement. Mark’s blood had revealed high alcohol content at his time of death, and it was believed that the Sheriff had been passed out at the kitchen table when the smoke began rising from the basement and through the vents. By the time that he was awake and aware enough to try and escape the fire, the Sheriff‘s lungs were already full of smoke.

He would only have managed to crawl a handful of feet towards the door before the smoke snuffed the life right out of him. The fire just made sure it stuck.

Most of the town turns up for the funeral. All of the precinct is in dress blues, and there are officers among them that Stiles doesn’t recognize—he thinks they’re from neighboring towns. He sort of remembers someone mentioning that a few cops were driving in from surrounding precincts to pay their respects to the fallen Sheriff. Some of them hadn’t even worked with his dad.

Even outside the borders of Beacon Hills, Mark Stilinski was known for being an honest man and a damned good Sheriff.

Stiles’ aunt flies in from Michigan with her husband as soon as word reaches them. They stand to one side of Stiles throughout the ceremony, Scott and Melissa McCall on the other.

The service is beautiful. Or Stiles thinks it would have been, if he’d really processed any of it.

Jake Buchanan, his dad’s right-hand Deputy, presents Stiles with his dad’s flag.

Stiles hears one of the girls sob as he gingerly takes the folded flag in his hands—he thinks it’s Allison, but it could be Lydia too. He knows they’re both a couple of rows behind him with Jackson. He's also caught glimpses of Derek’s pack distributed throughout the crowd; Isaac sitting with Erica and her mom, Boyd with his own family. Even Derek is lurking under a tree in the distance.

“It was an honor to serve under your dad,” Deputy Buchanan says, voice gruff. “He was a fine man.”

Stiles swallows, his eyes fixed on the flag in his hands. “The best,” he finally manages.

The funeral reception is held at a nearby bed and breakfast since there’s nothing left of Casa Stilinski, save for the burnt husk of a house. Most of the cops stop by to talk to Stiles, to tell him stories of their time working with his dad or to simply pay their respects. Some of the officers even graduated from the police academy alongside his dad. Stiles tries to smile where he’s supposed to and even manages a convincing laugh or two, but the cops’ stories only exhaust him and pick at wounds that haven’t even had the chance to scab over yet.

Not a single one of the officers mentions his dad’s suspension. In fact, they seem to make a collective effort to act as if it had never happened at all. They’re protecting the fallen Sheriff’s legacy in his death just as fiercely as they watched his back when he was alive.

Stiles thinks, for the first time, that perhaps pack bonds aren’t unique to werewolves at all.

xxx

All Stiles owns now is what was in the back seat of his jeep the night of the fire, so there’s no packing to be done when the time comes for him to head back to Michigan with his aunt and uncle. They’re his legal guardians now, so it looks like Stiles will be trading year-round 70 degree weather and beaches within driving distance for bitterly cold winters and chilly, far-off lakes.

He’s too numb to care all that much.

The pack’s all there to see him off the day they’re set to leave. In another life, Stiles would preen under the guise of popularity it gives him in the eyes of his aunt and uncle-- it’s really quite the send off. Allison even shows up with Derek and his betas. Yeah, _with_. Scott’s been glued to Stiles’ side since the funeral, but Allison’s been keeping her distance, unsure of where she stands with Stiles since they all know Gerard was behind the fire (c’mon, Mark Stilinski didn’t even _smoke_ ). It’s unnecessary, though. Stiles doesn’t hold Allison responsible for her unfortunate heritage of psychotic murderers.

Speaking of Gerard. He and his minions have been laying low since the fire. In fact, the only Argents that showed at the funeral were Allison and Chris. Victoria had been conspicuously absent, but Stiles hasn’t bothered to ask after her. Maybe the bitch had done them all a favor and knifed herself before her first full moon. He figures Scott would have mentioned it if she had, though.

His uncle had taken the jeep to the shop for a quick tune-up before the cross-country drive, so Stiles has an uncomfortable half-hour to look forward to killing with the pack. Currently, they’re just all camped out in front of the hotel he’s been staying at with his relatives. Stiles is sitting on the porch swing, somehow sandwiched between Scott and Isaac with Allison leaning against the railing so her leg brushes Scott’s with each lazy swing of the bench. Erica and Noah are sharing a nearby rocking chair, it’s steady creaking reminiscent of the ticking hands of a clock. Erica and Isaac find something mundane to bicker over when the tense silence weighing on the group becomes too much, or they take turns trying to coax Noah into conversation.

Noah’s been staying with Derek and Isaac at the train station for the past week. It’s less than ideal, but it’s arguably better than the trees the kid had been sleeping in before. Stiles thinks he remembers Scott mentioning that Derek’s actually looking into legitimate living conditions, like a rental or something. He has no idea how the alpha’s going to explain a seven year old kid suddenly appearing out of thin air, though. It’s not like that sort of thing can’t skate under the radar for very long.

Still, the kid looks better than he did when he first showed up.

Derek’s standing on the porch steps, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket-- not his trademark leather one, which Stiles hasn’t actually seen a trace of since the night he left it in the Camaro. Derek’s face is pinched and his eyes are haunted in a way that Stiles recognizes from a time when their roles were reversed, when Stiles had gone to the Hale funeral and watched from a distance as Derek put his family in the ground. Derek’s gaze isn’t quite so blank this time, though. Perhaps that’s got something to do with the way that Boyd is a constant shadow at Derek’s side. He’s currently propped against the porch railing next to Derek, arms folded and eyes narrowed at his shoes as if they‘ve personally offended him.

Stiles is pretending not to notice how close Isaac and Scott are sitting to him. He’s pretty sure their proximity has something to do with why the burns on his arms aren’t stinging quite so much beneath their layers of gauze. But again, the lack of caring keeps him from actually pestering them about it.

They must pass a half-hour like that, because when Stiles next glances up he spots his jeep pulling into the hotel parking lot. His uncle climbs out but leaves the door open, offering Stiles a solemn smile before tapping a finger against the face of his watch.

“Well-- that’s my ride,” Stiles declares softly, pushing to his feet and trying not to grimace at how the motion pulls at a particularly nasty burn on his left thigh.

He wishes he could find it funny when the entire pack rises and straightens as one.

Scott’s the first to yank Stiles into a hug so tight that it hurts, but Stiles bears it without comment. He lifts his arm that’s not in a sling to try and return the embrace. It still takes a minute for it to really sink in that he’s _leaving Scott_ , and when it finally does Stiles tightens his hold and turns his face into Scott’s neck to hide the way his eyes are suddenly wet.

Seriously, it shouldn’t be physically _possible_ for Stiles to even have any tears left.

Then he feels Isaac curl around his back at the same time that a face tucks into his neck from his left, the scent of Erica’s hairspray giving her away, and when Stiles peaks over Scott’s shoulder to see, Boyd is the one reaching over Scott to clap a hand on Stiles’ shoulder-- well, he proves he’s got a few more tears left than he’d thought. It doesn’t help that he can hear Allison beginning to cry softly somewhere behind him.

When Derek’s betas finally break away, Erica tries to subtly fix her mascara in an attempt to maintain some semblance of composure. Allison has no such qualms and slips between Scott and Stiles, looping her arms around his neck and pressing their cheeks together as her shoulders begin to shake with quiet sobs.

Scott shifts so that he’s hugging Stiles and Allison both, his face turned into Allison’s hair and his eyes closed, expression pained. Stiles thinks he’s trying to use Allison’s scent to steady himself just as much as Scott’s trying to offer her comfort, and the simple intimacy of the gesture makes something catch in Stiles’ throat. He quickly drops his forehead to Allison’s shoulder to try and hide the fresh wave of tears that follows.

Allison lifts a hand to run over his hair soothingly at the same time that Scott’s larger one grasps the back of Stiles’ neck in quiet reassurance.

It’s just really hitting Stiles how much he’s going to miss once he climbs in his jeep and heads to Michigan. He’s going to miss the pack getting their shit together and becoming an actual _pack_. More than that, he’s going to miss the day that Scott finally stops fighting against Derek and his own wolf and _becomes_ part of that pack. He’s probably going to miss Scott proposing to Allison on the night of their senior prom, because Scott’s nothing if not completely unoriginal, but with all the best intentions. Stiles can only pray that he’ll actually be there to see the wedding.

It isn’t until his aunt clears her throat that Stiles is able to extract himself, and by then it’s done so reluctantly by all parties involved. He spots his aunt watching them from the hotel entrance, blinking back tears of her own. Her voice is wobbly and apologetic as she tells Stiles that they really have to be leaving.

Stiles tries an understanding smile for her, but he’s sure it misses the mark by a couple of miles. Especially when he has to swipe his gauze-covered arm across his eyes to try and smudge away his tears. His aunt blessedly pretends not to notice the action and instead tiptoes past them to carry the last of her luggage to the waiting jeep.

Stiles turns and places a hand on top of Allison’s head, offering her a watery smile. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you?” He tilts his head towards Scott, grabbing and squeezing his friend’s shoulder one last time before falling back one step, then another.

Allison swipes at her eyes uselessly and nods, reaching out to tangle her fingers with Scott’s like he’s a lifeline. “I will,“ she manages, voice wobbly but somehow still firm. She even attempts a smile for him. “I promise.”

“I know you will,” Stiles replies simply, gaze catching Scott’s again. “Just-- be sure to feed and water him a couple of times a day. Give him a little Halo before bed time, maybe some CoD or WoW on the weekends-- just not on school nights, because you will _not_ get this guy away from a raid without surgical equipment, alright? And keep him away from supreme pizza because that’s not a good experience for anyone involved--”

“Dude!” Scott squawks, playfully shoving Stiles towards the porch steps as his face flushes in embarrassment. The grin on Scott’s face is worth it, though. Especially next to Allison’s tiny smile of absolute adoration as she reaches out to ruffle Scott’s hair teasingly.

And _that’s_ the image of the pair that Stiles wanted to leave with. Satisfied, he turns and begins to make his way down the porch steps.

Derek’s waiting for him at the bottom.

Rather than allow himself the chance to think about it, Stiles stumbles down the final steps and pulls Derek into a clumsy hug. Derek’s body is absolutely rigid, which makes it a little hard for the whole hugging thing actually take place, but after a heartbeat or two he lifts his arms to crush Stiles to him. Stiles is pretty sure he imagines the part where Derek buries his nose in Stiles’ neck and just breathes him in, but he doesn’t imagine Isaac’s answering wolf-whistle (there was a time when he would totally have eaten that irony up).

He and Derek jump apart as if they’ve been burned. They both shoot Isaac cool glares, and Stiles goes so far as to flip Isaac off if only because it’s expected of him. It seems to be the reaction that Isaac was aiming for though, because he only smirks cockily in return.

The bad-boy façade is sort of ruined by the way Noah’s peaking around Isaac’s leg, though.

Stiles shakes his head and turns, thumping Derek on the arm as he passes him. “See you around, sourwolf.”

With that, Stiles climbs into the back of his jeep, his aunt and uncle piling into the front seats after him. He keeps his head down as their doors slam shut and hopes the cool air from the car vents will help soothe the flush from his cheeks. The jeep jolts as his uncle shifts between gears-- the dude is clearly inexperienced with handling anything other than his coveted hybrid coupe back home-- and he can see his aunt waving goodbye to the pack from the corner of his eye. Stiles doesn’t allow himself to look back at the hotel’s porch as they pull out of the parking lot, though.

His head’s already pounding from crying through his goodbyes, and his pain medicine must be wearing off because his arms and legs feel as if they’re on fire all over again. He doesn’t dare risk looking back at the people he’s leaving on that hotel porch, because some traitorous part of Stiles’ mind is screaming at him that his last chance at a family isn’t with the people sitting in the front seats of his jeep-- it’s with the group of teenagers watching that jeep drive away.

His aunt must notice and misunderstand Stiles’ discomfort though, because she fishes around in her purse for his medicine before passing one of the prescription bottles back to him, along with a bottle of water. Stiles takes them without comment, but before he can twist the cap off of the meds, his aunt settles a hand on his knee and squeezes carefully.

“I know it’s hard, honey,” she soothes, “but you’ll be able to come back and visit, and your friends are welcome to come stay with us whenever they’d like.” She gives him a small smile. "I don’t think you’ll have any problem making new friends back home, though.”

 _Home_. The word’s like a punch to the gut, but his aunt thankfully turns back around in her seat before she can gauge Stiles’ reaction to her reassurances. Which means she doesn’t notice how close Stiles is coming to a full-blown panic attack as that word echoes in his head and pounds against his skull. _Home_.

Stiles doesn’t _have_ a home. Not anymore. Home was his dad. Home was the house that Stiles had lived in since he was old enough to walk. Home was where he could sometimes still trick himself into thinking he’d come downstairs in the morning and find his mom puttering about in the kitchen, cooking pancakes before Stiles’ dad could even pull himself out of bed. Home was the McCall’s house and the key to their front door Stiles wasn’t even supposed to have, but that Melissa would have given him anyways if he hadn’t beaten her to the punch. Home was rough-housing with Scott and elbowing each other during Mario Kart tournaments to try and make the other wreck. Home was Derek Hale and werewolves and hunters and sassy betas that wore too much leather and absolute terror and _insanity_.

If Beacon Hills wasn’t home anymore, then what _was_?

They’re crossing the Beacon Hills’ border a half-hour later when a chorus of mournful howls begins to rise from the forest of the preserve.

“I didn’t know there were wolves in California,” his uncle muses, glancing up at Stiles in the rear view mirror curiously.

And _that’s_ when Stiles finally breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Stilinski is killed in a fire.


End file.
